


Tension and Release

by Zivvanon



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: And get in over your head, But they're mentioned, Character Study, Guzma is a tense mess, Massage, Mentions of Lusamine - Freeform, Multi, Naughty things don't happen, Reader is a Team Skull Grunt, You offer to help, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 02:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9103558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zivvanon/pseuds/Zivvanon
Summary: As you press the heels of your palms into Guzma's solid muscle experimentally, you have a moment of clarity, followed by panic. You don’t know how to massage. There isn’t even any oil, though at this point you think the nervous sweat gathering on your palms could probably substitute. You feel like you have your hands on fragile glass, with an angry Primeape poised just beneath, daring you to crack it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A friend of mine just finished Sun and of course fell in love with Guzma. I wrote this indulgent massagefic for her, but I hope you enjoy too!

“D-do you want some soup or somethin’?”

The moment the question is out, you want to bite your own tongue. Smooth, real smooth. That’s exactly how one should approach their loose cannon boss, who is currently in a terrible mood, to ask what he wants for dinner.

You’ve never been all that great at this Grunt stuff. Even after a year you were still stumbling around, relying on your fellow Grunts to pick up your slack. Today was no different. It had been a long, hard day of trying (and failing) to steal Pokémon from trainers. For whatever reason you all got roped into doing Aether Foundation’s dirty work. You’d spent all day anxious and on your toes, so you really shouldn’t have been the one tasked with going to Guzma’s room and explaining the weak meal plan you and a few other Grunts tried to scrounge together. But here you are. Fucking up.

“What?” Guzma is stiff as a board when he whips around in annoyance, then immediately grunts in…pain? 

“For dinner, I mean. We don’t….got much of anythin’ good. But—“

Guzma stares at you like you’re some freak of nature for having the nerve to barge into his room like this. At least it doesn’t seem like he wants to hit you over it. “Fucking…I don’t care. Just bring me whatever we got.”

As you watch him storm around the room in no particular direction, mumbling to himself and kicking aside everything in his way—which thankfully didn’t include you—you realize that your boss hadn’t had the greatest day either. You’d heard through the “grapevine” that he’d spent all day at Aether’s base. To see _her_ ; Lusamine. Guzma always came back from those meetings uptight and rougher, like he had to make up for being so accommodating and nice while in her presence (you’d witnessed it once. It was unnerving to see him follow at her heel like some loyal Rockruff). 

This time he’s even more wound up than usual, though. His shoulders are hunched so far that they almost reach his ears, and you feel like you can nearly see the muscles bulging beneath his black jacket. When he kicks an empty bottle near his foot, he winces from the simple motion.

“You okay, boss?” you ask, clearing your throat when it comes out as more of a squeaky croak than a question. “You look…I dunno. In pain?”

He turns to you like he forgot you were there, his eyes widening and then narrowing just as fast. He makes an effort to straighten himself.

“Yeah. So? Don't see how my body's your problem.”

“I just mean I…” you shuffle in place, staring at your white sneakers and feeling on the spot. “Maybe....I can help?”

Guzma snorts and strolls up to you, his confident swagger hitched a little too much to the right. Whatever knot is in his back must be torture. 

“By doing what, huh? You gonna give me a rub down? ‘Cause I’m not in the mood to—“

“I could do that.”

He blinks in surprise, either from being cut off or from your rushed and very not-well-thought-out offer. You muster up the courage to meet his eyes, which are mismatched in size in his confusion. Well, it’s already out, so you can’t back off of it now. He’ll just say no anyway.

“…..Fine. Sure," he says, shrugging his shoulders and letting out a pained breath when that seems to pull on whatever is ailing him. "Can't really think of a better way to handle it, and getting drunk just numbs it a little." He stares you down like this is some sort of new Grunt initiation test and points across the room. "Get on the bed, then.”

“The bed…?” You’re gaping like a Magikarp, unable to believe that he’s taking you up on this. “Y-yeah! ‘Course.”

You feel as if you’re wearing cement shoes as you make your way over to his bed, climbing on it and situating yourself on your knees. What did you just get yourself into? You don't let yourself dwell on it too long, lest it send you running out of the room. Your boss accepted your suggestion and gave you an order. The least you can do is try.

He sits down on the edge of the bed in front of you, off-balancing you as the mattress dips under his weight. You brace yourself against his back, then snatch your hands away like you just touched some poisonous Pokémon. 

“Don’t think this is gonna go far if you’re too scared to touch me,” Guzma says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs and looking over his shoulder at you. “Do I make you nervous?”

It’s a loaded question, and the look in the eye of his that you can see is just as loaded. You swallow and try to focus on the task ahead instead of answering.

“You should take your shirt off,” you mumble, trying to sound more confident than you are. “I can’t…it’ll get in the way.”

You regret the suggestion immediately, but it doesn’t trouble Guzma all that much. In fact, he’s pretty damn pleased over it.

“You tryin’ to get your boy naked?” he teases, wiggling his hips in a suggestive gesture against the bed. “Can’t say I blame ya. Fine, I’ll play along. But you'd better make this worth the trouble.”

He ducks his head down and reaches over it to grasp the back of his shirt, pulling it up, over, and off. The fabric catches his shades on the way, but Guzma doesn’t care and tosses them along with the shirt.

Sitting up again, he takes a moment to stretch, then halts the motion with an angry growl. He really was hurting, huh?

That means you should get started and not waste time ogling him. Yet here you are, ogling him. He’s paler underneath his shirt than outside of it, which is still somewhat pale. This was the consequence of spending all your time in rainy, miserable Po Town instead of out on the beaches of Alola. It’s not a bad thing, though, and the way his—rather large—muscles move beneath his skin is mesmerizing.

You’re surprised that you don’t see more tattoos back here. You also half expected to see scars, considering the rumors you’ve heard. You internally kick yourself for it.

“Just…relax, I guess,” you encourage, cautiously placing your hands on his bare skin. He’s large enough that they look almost childish on his shoulders. It’s the warmth of him that hits you first. Obviously Guzma runs hot, but even his skin seems hotter than usual. Or maybe you’re the one who’s too hot. 

“If I could do that, we wouldn’t be doing this, would we?” Guzma snaps. “Get to it, already.”

You flinch at his irritation but jump to action. As you press the heels of your palms into Guzma's solid muscle experimentally, you have a moment of clarity, followed by panic. You don’t know how to massage. There isn’t even any oil, though at this point you think the nervous sweat gathering on your palms could substitute. You feel like you have your hands on fragile glass, with an angry Primeape poised just beneath, daring you to crack it.

You shake your head, thankful that Guzma can’t see you as you work up the courage to move your hands down along his shoulders, testing the waters. This is your chance to do something to make your boss happy; stand out from the crowd. You may have failed at stealing Pokemon but you'll be damned if you fail at this too. How hard could it be? 

Your touch stays light, but you can still feel bumps every now and then—ones you’re pretty sure aren’t meant to be there. Was he seriously this knotted up? All that hunching likely didn’t help.

“Are you gonna actually do something or was this just your excuse to feel me up?” Guzma asks, impatient.

You nearly choke on your own spit. You have to force yourself to not pull your hands away, figuring that would make him angrier. Instead you steel your resolve, staring at his back with the intensity you do a trainer you’re about to battle. You didn’t become a Grunt by being a total wuss. You press your thumbs into one of the knots you’d discovered, working into it and willing it to loosen. 

The loud, rumbling groan he lets out almost makes you jump off the bed.

“Shiiiit that’s good. Keep doing that.”

Your face heats up so fast that you’re sure you’re going to pop a blood vessel. Every tentative, subsequent touch along the tense muscles of his shoulder blades earns you another string of moans and decadent sighs. Why is he so _loud_? Then again, everything about Guzma is loud and in your face, but did _this_ really have to be? Is he just messing with you? You feel like your hands are going to start trembling as you run them over the wide expanse of skin, circling your fingertips in deep wherever you find another knot.

“A little to the left. Yeah, just like that. Those are some nice hands you got.”

You’re now glad you’d gotten in on that lotion your stupid friend swiped from Plumeria’s room. It was a risky move, but your softer skin was coming in handy in this moment.

“Thanks?” That’s all you can think clearly enough to say, because the warmth of him now seems to seep through your palms and down into the rest of you, to places it really, really shouldn’t be going. You can’t help it, though. His white hair is so close and it looks as soft as you imagined, and the flesh beneath your hands is smooth and pliable in all the places that you’re somehow managing to soften. Not to mention those sinful noises leaving Guzma’s lips that make it sound like your hands are stroking and soothing an entirely other part of his body.

You realize with a start that, in your concentration, you’ve leaned close enough that he’d be able to feel your breath if not for the bandana obscuring it. You’re relieved by that, but you also wonder how he’d react if that barrier wasn’t between your lips and the nape of his neck. Would he shiver? Would he turn around with that rakish grin of his and scold you for teasing him. Would he…?

No. This thought process is going nowhere good. He’s your boss, and you’re some shitty little cookie-cutter underling. It’s never going to happen.

“I feel like you’re thinking some unpure thoughts right now,” Guzma slurs, wavering between slumping back into you or forward to lean on his knees. “You're practically breathing down my neck. Is this your ‘thing’ or something?”

Your throat tightens. He just called you out. At least it appears to be a rhetorical question, since Guzma goes back to humming and purring right afterwards. You continue your work, and as you coax his muscles into loosening, you feel your own tightening. Half of it is the way the low, near-cooing sounds he’s now making has your stomach twisting into knots of its own. But you also worry that you might make the wrong move, touch the wrong place, and face the consequences.

Because Guzma is volatile and hot-blooded, a walking fuse with no way of telling where the flame is at any moment. Trying to look for telltale signs in the edge of his smile or the line of his shoulders is useless.

There is a pattern to him, though, vague as it is. From what you can tell, Guzma's whole existence is a series of highs followed by lows; a jolly drunken toast that becomes a clumsy alcoholic rage, the constant clenching and opening of his fists by his sides when he thinks nobody is watching. Every victory is followed by an even bigger failure, and you wonder whether the world is really conspiring against him or if, in his cockiness, he lunges to grasp at things he can’t hope to hold on to. What you know for sure is that if Guzma is happy, the other foot is guaranteed to drop soon. He’s all tension and release.

You drag your hands down his back and press your thumbs hard into the long line of muscle on either side of his lower spine, then release.

He grunts and shifts his hip against you in a jerk of a motion, and a crack echoes in the small space between you. Then he moans, low, loud, long, and sags forward. Evidently you just found the sweet spot. The enthusiastic response calms your frazzled nerves. You're starting to feel more self-assured, useful. Powerful, even. You don't imagine just anyone would get the chance to have the big bad Guzma moaning and arching his back into their hands like an attention-hungry Meowth.

“Fuck you’re good at this,” he sighs, and you struggle not to imagine if this is what he sounds like after certain other activities. “What is it we have you doing now? No way you’re better at it than you are at this. Maybe we should make this your official duty.”

You’re definitely better at this than cooking. And if you’re honest with yourself, the idea of being your boss’s personal masseuse is starting to not sound so bad at all.

You settle into a rhythm with him. Your palms dig into the sturdy muscle of his shoulder blades in time with his breathing, panting and audible in the new silence between you. If you get a vocal response, you spend more time in that spot, rubbing deep circles with your fingertips until the muscle melts under your touch. As you work your hands all the way up his spine and to his neck, you find yourself fascinated with the glint of the gold chain around it. You run an indulgent fingertip along the line of it, and the hairs on the back of Guzma’s neck raise as you brush some of his skin too.

He sighs and shivers and it's all so enthralling. You get too comfortable, because the question you’ve had for days (especially today) is, without your permission, slipping traitorously out of your mouth.

“What’s goin’ on with that Aether Foundation anyway? What’re we collectin’ all those Pokémon for?” 

You snap your jaw shut, but it’s too late. Your heart starts to race when you feel him tense under your hands. Shit shit shit, what were you thinking? You know that things about Aether, about her, always make Guzma testy when others bring it up.

“I-I…I just mean there’s lots of crazy stuff they want us to do but they’re so mysterious about it,” you stutter, running your palms too fast down his back in a frantic attempt to make up for your mistake. “I just wish I knew more.”

“It’s not your job to understand,” Guzma grumbles after a terse silence. “Miss Lusa— _Aether_ is doing important work and….tch, all you gotta worry about is doing what I say. That’s it. Boss Guzma's got it handled.”

He sounds weirdly defensive, like you insulted his personal project instead of the job Team Skull is supposedly just doing for cash. You would rather fling yourself off the balcony outside than press the issue further, though.

“For sure, boss…..sorry.”

“Yeah you better be.” He shifts on the bed and, reassuring, presses back into your hands. “Now stop talking and keep doing that thing you were doing on my shoulders.”

You do, and you damn well make it good.

You redouble your efforts, running clever fingers and firm palms over the dense muscle until you can’t find any more of those twisted spots that caused him so much pain before.

When are you even supposed to stop? There’s no protocol for this, and you just figured Guzma would yell at you or shove you away when he was finished with you. You try not to let your nervousness bleed into your touch as you run your hands up and down his back in idle strokes.

You get your answer, but not in the way you expect. Like a puppet cut from its strings, Guzma suddenly leans back into you with a long, satisfied exhalation. You gasp and scramble to steady yourself with his weight on you, bracing your knees into the mattress. His white hair tickles under your chin and your heart threatens to pound out of your chest.

“Too heavy for ya?” he asks. You hear the grin in his voice, and know he’s giving you a hard time on purpose. So much for being grateful or something.

“No!” you exclaim, a grin of your own spreading under your bandana. When he laughs, you know it was the right answer.

“That’s the spirit! I think I’m startin’ to like you.”

It feels too soon when Guzma finally lifts himself off of you so he can stand. You shuffle on your knees to the edge of the mattress and stand too, assuming he wouldn’t want you on his bed much longer. With both of you up and facing each other, an air of uncomfortable finality settles over you like a wet blanket. All the anxiety returns and seizes you in a vice grip until you’re squirming on your feet, holding your arms tight to your sides. It was so different when you just had to look at his back. Now he’s in front of you, sizing you up, and you have no clue how to act. Is he going to thank you? Should you just leave?

He leans down close to you, enough that you can feel his breath on your face. You keep your eyes glued to the floor and you can barely breathe. His shirt is still off. Fuck.

“What, no happy ending? What a rip-off.”

You startle, jerking forward and near knocking your head against Guzma’s. Then you step back like he’s just burned you, and don’t dare look down at the front of his sweatpants. He bursts into obnoxious laughter, reaching out to thump you so hard on the shoulder that you stumble.

“Alright, alright, chill out,” he snickers, moving back and regarding you with dancing eyes. “I was just messin'. You should see your face, though. Can’t even see most of it and you still look like you’re having a straight up meltdown!”

You don’t know what’s worse: that your leader now thinks you’re even more of a socially awkward screw-up, or that you would have gotten on your knees for him right then and there if he’d been serious.

He finally stops laughing and, to your relief and disappointment, turns away from you. “Yo, for real though. Nothing hurts anymore,” he says, stretching his arms over his head and bending from side to side. His movements are more limber, and there’s none of the stiffness from just 20 minutes earlier. “You really do got some magic hands!”

“Happy to help,” you reply, and you mean it. This may have started as something daunting, but now you feel better too. And…closer to him somehow? “Anytime you want…”

You trail off, feeling way too presumptuous. When he turns to look at you again, his eyes flash with something equally uncertain. But then it’s gone, and you’re left wondering if you imagined it when he plasters on his usual smirk and waves his hand in a dismissive, lazy gesture. 

“You can go now or whatever,” he says casually. “I’m not hungry.”

“Oh…yeah, okay.” You stare at the floor for a moment longer, hesitating to leave. You feel you have some sort of unfinished business, as inane as that is.

"You got something else to say?" Guzma asks, swiveling around and presenting you with his entire broad, bare chest again. His brow is cocked but his eyes are soft. Not actually irritated, then. In fact, his entire face seems more slack than usual, like he just woke up from a long and restful nap. Was the massage really that good? "I already said you did good. You want a reward or something? A kiss goodbye? Or do you just wanna stare at my front for a while, since you got your fill of my back?"

He gestures to his torso, flashing you a smirk. It barely balances on his lips before it falls away; that unfamiliar, unguarded expression returning despite his mockery. 

Those last two lines are just another joke; a cruel poke at the feelings that have your cheeks burning red and your heart still pulsing far too fast. But his face is so sincere, and it's making you hopeful and uneasy at the same time.

"No no, I don't want any...sorry, I mean, I just..." You grit your teeth against your stuttering and try to collect yourself into some semblance of a confident human being. You're a Team Skull Grunt, not a shy little schoolkid. Once you feel ready to meet his eyes again, you do so with what you hope is an unwavering look. And you do your best to shake yourself out of thinking there's anything more for you here. It was just a favor for your leader. He doesn't think it's anything else. “G'night, boss. I…hope you really feel better.”

You don’t wait for his response. You turn on your heel and hurry out of the room, knowing that you’ll soon blend in and become just another Grunt again. There’s some comfort in that, but it also brings a lump to your throat. You know there’s no chance in hell that Guzma will ever look at his group of followers and pick you out of a sea of pink and blue hair and matching outfits. You’re not that kind of starry-eyed naïve.

It’s not so bad, though, you think as you hop out of the window and into the too-cold, shrouding Po Town rain. Guzma may not remember you specifically, but you’ll always have what other Grunts never will; the phantom sensation of his bare skin under your hands, the intimate knowledge of what buttons to press to make him shudder and melt against you, the sharp memory of the sounds he makes when you touch him just the right…

You bury your face in your hands and groan. Alright, maybe this _is_ so bad. And maybe you need to stand in this rain a little longer and cool off.


End file.
